Any Other World
by Chickwriter
Summary: When a badly wounded Matthew returns from the front, the only person he wants is Mary... but he doesn't know that.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N - So it's been years since I've written anything for fun, but after gorging on articles and interviews and a press kit, something began to gnaw at me, and I thought I should probably write it to get it out of my system. This isn't based on any one spoiler for Season 2... it's a long game interpretation of several statements and hints without a timeline because I can't quite read how that's going to go... yet._

_I hope this gives you one tenth the enjoyment I've had reading all of your stories. This is a marvelously talented bunch of writers. _

_ I don't own any of the characters. I wish I did. _

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><p><strong>Any Other World 17**

He was pale and unconscious when they brought him to Downton Abbey that morning from the field hospital, miraculously alive, but terribly restless, and Isobel knew from experience that it would mean a hard night ahead with the pain. The arm and hand were immobilized, and the rip across his cheek was perfectly, almost invisibly stitched, but the internal injuries were the ones giving him agonies, and she could do little to soothe the misery caused by each slow rise of his chest, the breath that nudged each cracked and broken rib and chafed the slight gas burns in his lungs, and pushed at the shredded muscles across his stomach.

Matthew was lucky, she knew, lucky the shrapnel had not embedded itself deeper in his abdomen, lucky the percussive injuries and gas inhalations were minor, and lucky he wasn't slowly bleeding to death like the two men directly in front of him did after the shell hit. She had aged ten years when she heard what happened to him, and dropped those years behind her when she saw pink underneath the paleness, the unmistakable sign that he would pull through. Yet it would not be an easy recovery, nor a short one, and most especially not a painless one.

So she was not unprepared when, as the ancient clock on that floor softly chimed one, Matthew began to moan. The sounds were small and childish at first, as if he was a little boy again, her little boy and she was soothing a fever, or a stomachache, or the rare nightmare. But the cool cloths and soft words that worked when he was a child could not calm the man who was crying in his unconscious state, tears streaming down his cheeks as he reached for something he could not find. He was sick once, the heaves making the pain even worse, and as he lay back, now half-conscious and still crying, the moan became a single word, over and over, a keening that chilled Isobel's soul. "Mary," was all he could say, his voice barely registering in the still room. "Mary."

"Matthew," she said sharply, "Matthew, wake up. Wake up."

But he wouldn't, or couldn't. He could only keep saying that name, over and over, sometimes a question, sometimes a whisper, but only "Mary."

She was about to give him morphine when she heard another voice.

"I'm here."

Isobel had not heard the door open, but there was Mary, her dark hair loose about her face, her scarlet silk dressing gown like a flame in the lamplight as she settled on the bed. "Matthew," she whispered, in a voice so low and sweet, it thrummed through the room like the song of a cello. "Shhh, Matthew. I'm here. Shhhh." Her hand touched his brow, pushed back the dirty blond flop of hair across his forehead, and stroked at the frown between his eyes. "It's all right, Matthew. You're safe."

His hand, the good one, reached for the sound, fingers fumbling across her face before stopping on her lips. "Mary?" he whispered, and his eyes flickered open, unfocused. "Mary?"

Mary smiled and kissed his fingertips gently before taking his hand in hers. "I'm here, Matthew. You're home."

His eyes shut again, and the tears stopped as the ghost of a smile returned to his face. "You're safe, then?" he murmured. "I was so worried..."

"Of course I'm safe, Matthew. Don't worry." Her finger traced along his cheekbone, the still-intact one, and he turned his head toward it to kiss her hand, clumsily, but in so endearing a manner, it brought fresh tears to Isobel's eyes.

"Good," he whispered, and he pulled Mary's other hand tight against him. "I'll just rest my eyes."

And Isobel watched his face soften slightly, and as the minutes passed, the tension eased out of his mouth, and he slept.

She looked up to congratulate Mary on her success, but the words died in her throat at the sight before her.

Mary's eyes, the deep brown pools so unreadable most of the time, were filled with love, agony, joy, fear, desire, pain and longing. She stared at Matthew, her breath coming in soft sighs as she drank in the sight of him. Her hand, the one he had kissed so sweetly, was now pinned over her own heart, almost as if she had to stifle the sound of it beating, and her cheeks were nearly as red as her dressing gown as the corners of her mouth turned up slowly.

"You should get some rest," she whispered, and it took a moment for Isobel to realize that Mary was speaking to her. "I'll stay with him."

"He'll need nursing in the night. It's not pretty stuff."

Mary's eyebrow quirked up at that, but she did not take her eyes from Matthew's face. "I wasn't completely ignoring you during that nursing class you made us all take." She stood up. "Do you have an extra apron?"

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><p>It wasn't pretty. The stench of draining wounds, the sight of mutilated flesh, and the cleaning up after him as if he were still a baby would have tried the nerves of the best nurses, and the dreadful burned bits of himself he coughed up nearly did in his own mother.<p>

But Mary had paid attention, and Isobel was pleased to see she was entirely unflappable when it came to wounds and bodily functions. Her face showed no disgust or repulsion through the long hours, only serenity and concern as she helped Isobel with the worst of the tasks. She held his head when he was sick, showed particular skill in cleaning the worst shrapnel wounds, and soothed his restless cries and tears with the softest kisses and nonsense words. She held his hand through the most painful of procedures. Only once did she react, when Isobel was rebandaging his belly and bumped a rib. He shrieked in pain, and Isobel heard her sharp intake of breath and tiny sob at the sound of it. He did not regain consciousness during all of this, something for which Isobel was grateful, if only to prevent her son from knowing that the love of his life was seeing him in the most helpless of states.

For Isobel knew that men in war will call for the woman they love when they believe they are dying, and she knew now, seeing Mary watch over her Matthew, that what had once seemed to her nothing more than a romantic fulfillment of duty between two attractive children (for they were children to her), had grown through hurt and war and time and friendship into something so deep and true in Mary's heart that Isobel's own heart swelled a little at the thought of it. What mother would not want her son to know what it was like to be loved so much?

The sound of wheels on gravel snapped her back to reality, and she looked back down at the young woman who was nearly her daughter-in-law, who was holding her son's hand and softly humming a tune Isobel could not identify. "That should be Dr. Clarkson."

Mary nodded, but did not move.

"He was meeting the milk train first." Isobel took a deep breath, as if steeling herself for the pain she was about to inflict. "Lavinia will be with him."

"Oh, good," Mary whispered. "Matthew will need her." She stood slowly, her face contorting in pain as she tried to loosen the apron.

"I'll get it," Isobel's fingers reached for the knot, but gasped at the sight of Mary's left hand. "Mary! Did Matthew do that?"

Mary looked at it, confused. The white skin across half the hand was bruised purple, swollen to nearly twice its size and clearly misshapen below the pinky. "I guess so. When... his rib." She looked sick for a moment.

"I'll send Dr. Clarkson to you first."

"But what about Matthew?"

"No buts. Go to your room."

Mary nodded, and moved toward the door, cradling the injured hand in the other. "You'll tell me, won't you? If he... needs me?"

"Won't you know if he needs you?"

Mary stopped.

"You couldn't have heard him calling your name, not from your room. It's clear across the house, on the opposite corridor."

Mary, whose tongue was sharper than her grandmother's, whose wall around her heart was thicker than any Isobel had ever known, did not contradict her. She merely looked at her, the tears spilling down her cheeks, the tiniest smile keeping it from being quite the saddest face Isobel had ever seen. "I thought I did hear him," she murmured, and looked past her to Matthew's face, quiet now, and her smile grew even sweeter. "He's alive," she whispered, and her eyes met Isobel's again. "Thank you."

"Thank you," Isobel answered. "Go. And don't faint."

She was worried the two women would cross paths, requiring an explanation, but Isobel saw the dark head turn the corner on the corridor just as the strawberry-golden one topped the stairs, and rushed toward her in a flurry of words and worry.

She was almost irritated by the fact Lavinia had to be told to be quiet.

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><p>The worst had passed that night. He regained consciousness later that morning, never once calling for Mary again. The family traipsed in, one by one, to visit and keep him company, their cheerfulness getting on Isobel's nerves, if not her son's.<p>

Lavinia rolled up her sleeves and put on an apron.

Mary did not darken the door again.

She knew from Dr. Clarkson that Matthew's pain-fired grip had severely broken a bone in Mary's hand, and that she had tolerated the setting of the bone without a peep. The doctor was under strict instructions not to explain to the rest of the family how Mary came to be wearing a plaster cast on her left hand. "I fell," was all she would say.

No one paid much attention, as Matthew was all anyone would talk about at dinner, even as he remained upstairs, every day a little better, sitting up, eating on his own, and then finally taking those first tentative steps, Lavinia at his side.

And Mary retreated inside that old, brittle shell that Isobel now understood, knowing that it protected an easily bruised, yet loving heart, coupled with a strength of spirit she herself admired. But she knew Mary too well now, and knew she would never allow those things to be seen again, especially by the man she loved.

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><p>"Edith sent up some pictures of the farm, so you can see how it's going." Isobel put them on his tray with a smile. "And Sybil has sent a book. I can't tell what it's about."<p>

Matthew looked at the pictures, shaking his head. "If she keeps this up, I think I might have a fight on my hands over who'll run it."

"There's no fight. She's already better than you'll ever be. She promised to stop by later. I said you'd be in."

He wheeled himself over to the window and looked down at the lawns. A lone figure, one he watched for every day, was walking slowly, arm in sling, the yellow dog at her side keeping pace.

"Has Cousin Mary ever..." His voice trailed off, and he answered his own question. "I suppose not."

It was the first time he'd mentioned her name. Isobel tried to pick her words carefully. "Would you like her to visit? I can ask.."

"She would if she wanted to." He picked at the blanket, pulling a stray red silk thread away from the white wool. "I thought, though, that first night... I thought I saw her."

She turned to stare at him. "You remember that night?"

"I ... No, of course not. Never mind." And he shrugged. "Cousin Cora said she broke her hand falling. Riding, I imagine. I can't see her nursing. Or farming. Can you?"

She smiled down at him. "Cousin Mary might surprise you."

"She always does." His tone was bitter and they lapsed into silence, broken only by his humming the same tune he'd hummed since waking up.

"What is that song?"

He frowned. "I don't know. Probably something from the trenches..." He turned the wheelchair away from the window. "I think I'll take a nap now, if you don't mind."

He would no longer let her help him, or Lavinia, so after the nurse stepped into the room, she walked into the hall and let out the breath she'd been holding.

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><p>What would she tell her son? What could she tell him? That the woman in whom he had no faith had helped nurse him through one of the worst nights of his life, and the woman he had promised to marry could not bear to look at his wounds? That the woman he believed wouldn't take him without a guarantee of position had seen him at his worst and given of herself the kind of perfectly selfless love he would never know from Lavinia? That the vows included "for worse" and "in sickness" and that Lady Mary Crawley had fulfilled those vows over and over again in a long, pain-filled night, and Lavinia Swire could not stand the smell of the sickroom?<p>

And what if she did tell him? Would he end a two-year engagement on the strength of it? She knew her son would rather die than do anything dishonorable, a male characteristic of his father's that she had privately loathed. There was no point in honor if you made three people unhappy by it, but Matthew wouldn't see it that way.

Neither would Mary, if it came to that. Isobel was at first surprised that Mary was so kind and friendly to Lavinia, but after that long night together with Mary, she had begun to understand it, to see it as Mary's gift to Matthew to accept and love his choice. She would never allow Matthew to throw over Lavinia. The guilt would be too great.

And then there would be scandal, the third in Mary's life.

But remembering the look in Mary's eyes and Matthew's joy at her touch, no matter how delirious he was, and this idea that one unhappy person was a far better scenario than three unhappy people made Isobel only more determined to fix it.

That night, when the ancient clock softly chimed one, there was a knock on Mary's door.

**TBC**

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><p><em>AN - Thinking of some different viewpoints, plus what's behind door number three. Reviews and suggestions welcome. Cheers!_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N - Thank you all for your lovely notes and kind words - I'm glad you're enjoying it as much as I've enjoyed all of your work. For those of you who write stories about Mary, I salute you... she's really hard, but that's probably why I'm on #teamMary._

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><p><strong>Any Other World 27**

It hurt.

It hurt, and it itched, and it_ smelled_.

Mary did not mind the pain, and she could tolerate the itch, but the smell was killing her. The cast had only been on for two weeks, and she had at least four more to go in the plaster monstrosity that bound her left hand and wrist, reeking of liniment and damp, not-quite-clean flesh. It smelled of the convalescent wards she'd neatly managed to avoid working in during the past two years, even though those wards were inside her own home.

It wasn't the wounds and illness, but rather the agony of desperation that made her stay away, the cloud of "if only" hanging over the soldiers. It was as if she could hear them thinking, "if only I hadn't turned, if only I'd gone with my friend, if only I'd taken one more step... I wouldn't have lost my hand... my arm... my eyes."

She knew all too well the agonies of "if only."

If only... and she wouldn't have lost her heart, her reputation.

Her soul.

But she had, and it meant that the man in the room on the other side of the house wanted nothing to do with her.

Eleven days ago, he'd come home.

Eleven nights ago, he'd called for her.

Mary had not laid eyes on him since, because he never called for her again.

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><p><em>She had barely made it into her room when the pain in her hand roiled her stomach and she was sick in her basin, pathetically so, the scent making her heave again and again to the point of tears.<em>

_"M'lady?" The soft voice broke through her wretchedness and she looked up to see Anna, a wet cloth at the ready. "Mrs. Crawley said you might need me."_

_And Mary broke down, sobbing freely as Anna bathed her face and put her in her favorite chair, the tears coming even harder when Anna discovered her hand._

_"I fell," she mumbled, pulling it back._

_"Out the window?" was Anna's initial response, but when Mary would explain no further, Anna left it alone. Mary did not bother to watch as Anna washed it, feeling rather than seeing the cold fingers tracing the bruise line that looked exactly like what it was... a handprint, marking her._

_Dr. Clarkson was stunned by it, initially insisting that she be moved downstairs. "You'll need something for the pain," he told her. __But she refused, both the morphine he offered, and the unwelcome idea of being sick in public. __So she stayed in her favorite chair and Dr. Clarkson set the bone, causing pain far worse than the initial injury, and wound the plaster around it himself, aided only by Anna, as Mary simply sat there, staring at nothing, tears coursing down her cheeks and an inexplicable smile playing around her mouth._

_Matthew was alive. He was alive, and he loved her._

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><p><em>She had dreamed of him before she awoke, thinking she could hear him saying her name. But all was silent in the heavy darkness of her room, and the oppressiveness of it forced her to do what she had done night after night over the past few months when she couldn't go back to sleep.<em>

_She walked._

_In years past, one wouldn't dream of just getting up and wandering, but like most things in 1918, what happened in the past just didn't matter. She would pace the low-lit upstairs halls, wandering into the makeshift library her father had created on the second floor to make room for game boards and more popular books in what was now the recreation room for the recovering soldiers. She'd never been much for serious reading, preferring novels to histories, but over the past few months of sleepless nights, she'd found comfort in darker books, if not the peace she was seeking._

_That night, she never made it to the library._

_As she turned the corner, she heard what she thought she heard in her dream, faint and almost unrecognizable, but more beautiful than any music._

_"Mary."_

_She did not even think to knock, but as she set her eyes on him for the first time from the door, she very nearly ran away._

_Matthew was crying, his cast-bound left arm flailing against the soaked pillows as his right hand swatted away his mother's attempts to wipe his forehead. He was pale, sweating, and unconscious, and her stomach dropped at the sight of him._

_But he was calling her name._

_He was calling her name, and when she answered, his eyes opened, and for one, long, glorious moment, he looked at her and she knew he was fully conscious, knew he saw her._

_She knew he loved her._

_He loved her, and it washed over her in a wave of joy and fear, desire and longing, like wine and firelight as she held his hand and watched him try to kiss her fingers as he slipped back into unconsciousness, as she watched his face relax, and she knew it was because of her._

_He wanted her, and she had, for the first time in the six years she had known him, given him what he wanted._

_She could not get enough of looking at him in that moment, realizing with a blush that he was naked beneath the bedclothes, the hard muscles of his arms and shoulders visible, his chest bound with straps to hold the broken and cracked ribs in place. She ached to touch him beyond holding his hand, needed to kiss his face and fingers again, had to confirm he was actually real._

_So she did what she wouldn't do for any other person under that roof._

_It was terrible, and terrifying, and beautiful to hold his hand, his head, to mop his forehead and kiss it when she thought his mother wasn't looking. The deep, angled slices where the surgeons had pulled metal from his stomach should have turned her own stomach, but they didn't, and she found the delicate, methodical swabbing of those stitched lines and craters soothed her own anxiety about his condition as much as it probably soothed him. She did not blush or recoil when his mother had to perform the most intimate of tasks to clean him, only reveled in the fact that it was her voice, her touch, her presence that calmed him._

_Nothing salved her soul as much as hearing her own name on his lips._

_She was so drunk with love and exhaustion that when Isobel's elbow came in contact with the worst of his broken ribs and Matthew's hand contracted around her own, she barely noticed the damage he'd done._

_Only when he was finally quiet, his right hand tightly clasping her own, did the spell break, with the mention of another woman's name._

_And with the knowledge that the girl he'd promised to marry was on her way to take her place, whatever had dulled the pain washed away at that moment and she was alone again, in agony, and without hope._

_Except that Isobel seemed to understand._

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><p>She spent the next night awake, wandering, her hand throbbing, hoping to hear him again, but to no avail. There was no sound from that room. Isobel had come down to dinner that night, along with Lavinia, to announce that he was now sleeping and was safely on the road to recovery.<p>

And Lavinia could do nothing but talk about him at dinner, and for the first time since she'd known Lavinia, Mary genuinely resented her, resented that she had the right to talk about Matthew, the right to touch him and kiss him, the right to love him.

She felt Isobel's eyes on her, and she was determined not to react in any way that would expose her heart.

Every night was agony this way, the invisible knives twisting deeper with every pretty, cheerful word from Lavinia's mouth.

Every day was agony as she walked the grounds with Isis, the half-grown yellow Labrador, willing herself to never look up at the windows, even as she could feel his eyes upon her, as she had always been able to do, even before she knew she loved him.

Every moment when someone would say how well Matthew was looking hurt worse than the one before.

And yet she managed, day after day, night after night, moment to moment, to never reveal that agony, to always seem pleased to hear about Matthew, to always seem cheerful and dismissive of her own injury, to always deflect any attention away from herself.

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><p>On that eleventh night, after dinner, she nearly gave it away.<p>

Her father asked her to stay in the dining room with him, an unprecedented breach of the rules they'd clung to during the last four years.

"Murray's coming up tomorrow to explain what happens," he said as he handed her a small glass of port. "I understand why you want to know, but you're still young. You could..."

She stopped him. "Not after what happened, Papa. You know as well as I do no one would have me."

"War changes things."

"Not enough."

His smile was sad, a mirror of her own. "I'm not going anywhere anytime soon, I hope you know."

"Of course you're not." She watched him drink, memories of thousands of evenings stretching out behind her, of this part of her world forever shut off to her because she wasn't a boy. "But when it does happen, I want it settled and perfectly clear. I don't want to have to ask him for anything."

He nodded thoughtfully at that, and sat back in his chair. "They'll still be your family, you know. You can't completely cut yourself off from them."

Oh, yes I can, she thought to herself.

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><p>She'd hoped to talk to Sybil after dinner, but Sybil and Lavinia were already deep in conversation by the time she reached the drawing room, and Mary didn't have the energy to try and join it after the discussion with her father. She had not expected him to grant her request so quickly, to bring Murray up so she would understand how the money long intended as a dowry would be settled upon her after his death, and the fact he had agreed so quickly made her a little sad. It meant he, like her mother and grandmother, had finally given up on her.<p>

She was about to give up on the evening when she overheard Lavinia and Sybil.

"It becomes easier." Sybil's voice was tired, and Mary recognized the new edge to it, the hope of youth lost to years of nursing, of seeing the worst that men can do to one another. "You get used to it."

"I don't think I ever will get used to it," Lavinia said. "It's been so hard with Matthew. He doesn't want to be a burden on me and the nurse really is better at all of it."

Mary could not breathe.

How could Lavinia even think it was a burden, when it was Matthew lying there, needing her? How could she not want to help him, to soothe him, to be near him every second of the day? How could she come down to dinner and leave him behind, alone in that room when he might want something. That nurse wasn't enough. He needed someone who loved him in that room, someone who would kiss his pain away, someone who..

She stood up so quickly that she nearly fainted from the blood rush. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to bed." She half-heartedly waved at her sling. "Good night."

As her eyes roved the room, politely, to include all in her exit, she saw Isobel, and could not bear what she saw in her eyes.

And she waited until she was in the hallway to run, past the footman whose name she could never remember, up the stairs, and down the long corridor to the safety of her room, where she, once the virtuous eldest daughter of an earl, now a fallen woman to be pitied, could cry in peace for all she had lost and all she would never have.

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><p>Now she could not sleep.<p>

She had heard the clock strike eleven and twelve, and yet her eyes remained open, curled up as she was in her favorite chair, wrapped in that same silk dressing gown that still smelled faintly of him.

And she thought of him, and her ears strained, as they had night after night, to hear any sound from him, hoping she would, as Isobel noted, know he needed her.

She did not expect the sign would come directly from Isobel, who, when Mary opened the door just after the clock struck one, said simply to her, "He needs you."

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><p>Like before, she did not bother to knock.<p>

But instead of Matthew in bed, she found him seated in an armchair, chest bare under his open dressing gown, staring out the window.

"Matthew," she began, and he started up out of his seat, his good hand grasping its back for balance.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed, clearly furious, and her heart, which had soared at the thought that her Matthew needed her again, sank lower than she thought possible.

"I... Never mind. I'm sorry." She backed away, toward the door, and turned the knob, blinded by tears.

"How did you break your hand?"

The question hung in the air, and she dared not turn around.

"Cousin Cora said you fell. Riding? Is that what you spend your time doing around here?"

The disdain in his voice was like a slap across the face, clearing away all feeling, except that of cold fury.

"I didn't break my hand."

"What?"

She turned around to face him and was pleased to see he flinched at the look in her eyes. "_I_ didn't break my hand."

And she watched his beautiful eyes as she had for years, watched as his expression changed, the anger replaced by confusion. She watched as his hand flexed involuntarily, as if some muscle memory struck it. She watched confusion turn to recognition.

"_I_ didn't break my hand," she repeated softly.

Something broke through at that moment, and she saw him take in the full vision of her, the red silk and gossamer white she had worn eleven nights ago, her hair loose as it had been, and his knees buckled. He sat down, heavily, and looked again at his right hand.

"It was you," he whispered.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Thank you again for your inspiring comments and suggestions. It's Matthew's turn. There's a rabbit in this one. _

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><p><strong>Any Other World 37**

He dreamt in red.

_The blood flowers on uniforms, soaking into mud and unnamed fluids, all turning scarlet, and the screams from open red mouths chase him down the trench as he trips over blistered legs, the tortured skin blossoming into flames as he runs faster, a curtain of fire ahead and behind and suddenly there is nothing but heat and hot pincers grasping at him, digging into his lungs as he tries to breathe, as he reaches for the cool, small hand that is just beyond... _

And he woke up.

That is what he dreamt when trapped in the trench, while at the field hospital, and during the long, agonizing train ride to Downton, all events he cannot fully remember, nor does he care to. He knew only that if he could just reach that hand, he would be safe.

He saw only ceilings as they brought him in, and red curtains surrounding the bed that felt too soft after months of cots and mud, things that faded into mist after the all-too-familiar prick of the needle and the cloud wrapped itself around his head, his chest, his legs until he could feel nothing.

Again, he dreamt in red.

_This time, as he ran through the blood and fire, the hand belonged to someone and she was ahead of him, then behind him, and he could not get hold of her, could not keep her with him, and he saw the flames wrap around her, and there was no hand to reach, only fire consuming her and he could only scream her name over and over again._

_And suddenly, she answered._

_She answered, and the hand appeared, first on his forehead and then on his cheek, another grasping his hand as soft lips kissed the tips of his fingers._

And he woke up.

His eyes opened and it was Mary, marble skin blushing the palest pink as she smiled at him, the real smile he loved, as her fingers traced across his face, and he had to kiss her hand, had to know it was real, and that she was safe.

And she was real, and safe, and holding his hand.

And he let the cloud take him back, because it was all right, and she was there and she loved him.

_Over and over again that night, he thought she was burning up, and he couldn't save her, yet over and over when he called her name, she was there with her cool fingers and soft voice, his name like a benediction on her lips._

The next day, when he woke up, she wasn't there. It was Lavinia's little hand he was holding, Lavinia's voice that spoke to him, Lavinia's warm lips on his forehead.

And Mary was not among those who popped in for a quick, cheerful hello.

And no one who came to see him that day mentioned Mary.

And for a long, painful day, in which he slipped in and out of morphine-triggered sleep, he thought maybe she was dead, and he'd only dreamt her.

That night, after Lavinia's hot hand patted his, after his mother's endless instructions to the nurse, after the lamp was extinguished, he dreamt again in red.

_The trench twisted around and around like a staircase, the steps the bodies of men, their blood a waterfall, and he tripped on each, the white hand beckoning him up and up until there was only brightness and light and he could finally take hold of those perfect fingers and be safe. _

_But when he grasped the hand, he was not safe. The hand crumbled to pieces, dry dust and bone, disappearing and in his ears rang a devilish cry, and then nothing. _

He awoke with a start, into the blackness of the room, pressing down on him, just as the mud and bodies had in that trench just days before.

It was minutes before the nurse heard him, minutes before she could be convinced that one window must always be cracked open, the shutters and curtains pulled back, so he could see outside, see that he was not trapped.

But not even the waft of cool air, the pale moonlight reminding him he was in the north of England and not in a hole in the French countryside, not even those things could shake the fear inside, the vague, guilty sense that since he'd been in this house, he'd done something terribly wrong.

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><p>Eleven days later, and Matthew has taken to not sleeping at night, because the dreams only come at night. When he naps during the day, there are no dreams. It is like a kind of twilight sleep, one in which he can hear those around him talking, and yet he cannot move or awaken. It is not a pleasant kind of rest, and he is groggy afterwards as if drugged, but he cannot allow himself to sleep any other way.<p>

So he pretends to doze off come evening, but when the lamps are turned down and the nurse slips into the other room, he waits to hear her predictable snore and then, slowly, painfully, works his way out of the bed and into the chair.

He finds it odd that his legs and arms, are, for the most part, pain-free and operational. The cast on his left wrist is irritating, but at least it doesn't hurt, and neither do the stitches on his face. His lungs, after a few days of painful coughs, are more or less free of the little bit of gas he did inhale before getting on the mask, and he is grateful beyond reason that he could reach his own mask in time, because those men around him did not. It is his chest, his back, his stomach that ache interminably, the muscles screaming with every movement, but when he is at last in the chair facing the window, his legs propped up on the tufted ottoman, the pain eases.

This is the only place he's seen her.

* * *

><p>He'd insisted on the third day that he should try to walk a bit, that he couldn't stay put in that bed for much longer. So bit by bit, he eased his way out, with the help of Lavinia, whose smiles could not quite hide the initial revulsion at the sight of his wounds and his incapacities. He didn't blame her. They made him sick as well, and he didn't want a nursemaid anyway.<p>

The chair was a welcome relief, the rigidity of the back and arms far more comfortable than the pillowy bed. From then on, he insisted on being in the chair before breakfast. He could read and eat here, and felt significantly less of an invalid when the family came to visit.

He could also see the lawns, still kept up as if there was no war outside, watch the sun and shadows cross the soft undulations, remember garden parties and walks, a moment on a bench in which he felt hope.

On the fifth day, he saw her.

Her head was bare, the dark hair knotted loosely at the nape of her neck. He noted with a surprising pang that her left arm was bound in a black silk sling, and she walked with uncharacteristic slowness. Isis walked with her, putting her pretty nose up in Mary's right hand for the occasional pat.

He'd leaned forward, debating on whether or not to call out to her when she halted. She stopped right in his view and her back stiffened. Her head turned slightly, the chin tilted down, and he knew she could sense him looking at her.

"She should put on a hat. It's chilly out there."

He'd forgotten Cousin Cora was in the room and her voice startled him. "What did she do to her arm?" he asked.

"It's her hand. She fell and broke it." Cora shook her head as she read the spine on the book by his bedside. "Sybil really ought not send you books like this."

Lavinia's entrance prevented him from asking how she broke it. He imagined it had to be riding, as there was no way Mary would ever nurse anyone, and he couldn't see her farming or pulling her weight in any other way.

When he looked out again, she was gone.

But a strange series of images, like photographs, only in deeply glorious color, kept appearing in his mind, of Mary in red silk and a white apron, her hair loose around her face, holding his hand, wiping his forehead, and, in one that made his breath catch to think about, swabbing the dreadful wounds across his belly, her cheeks aflame as her fingers brushed against his bare skin.

He could not believe they weren't real, but as the days passed, and she did not come to see him, he decided it was all in his mind, and that the Mary he hoped for was nothing more than a dream, a dream who walked by his window every day, but never turned around.

* * *

><p>Lavinia filled in the blanks for him, about Pamuk and Carlisle, scandals that would have destroyed the family had a war not been raging. She did not, as one might expect, revel in that disclosure. She liked Mary, something Matthew had not initially understood, just as he couldn't quite see why Mary had been nothing but kind to Lavinia, even going so far as to defuse and deflect Violet's attempts to exclude her. Yet eventually, he came to accept it as proof they had all grown up, and that war does really change everything.<p>

Mary had even made a point of making him out to be a kind of brother. When he'd last seen her, she'd given him a gift from the nursery as a sort of mascot, a tiny toy rabbit, apparently one all three sisters had loved in turn, velvety soft, with the entirely unoriginal name of Bunny.

"You would have been a much nicer brother than Patrick. You are a nicer brother than Patrick," she told him as she thrust it into his hands, slightly embarrassed by it.

"I'm nicer?"

"He was nice enough, but he just... He knew it was all his and he just seemed entitled all the time. You never did."

"Isn't that the point? We are entitled. I'm entitled now."

She grinned at him. "Yes, we're all entitled. I mean, you never assumed it. You understood everything." The past hung heavy in the air, and her smile faded a bit. "You've worked so hard, just as Papa does, to make sure it's there. That the people who depend upon it are happy."

"Are you happy?"

"I can't be happy until this is over," she said softly. "Can anyone?"

"No, I guess not," he murmured.

The train whistled, and she gave him a little push on the arm. "I'll see you soon."

"You sound very certain."

And the grin came back, full-on, the real one with nothing hidden behind it, no guile or pretense, just Mary. "I am."

He could wave goodbye to her then, his heart calm, feeling then that he had chosen the right future wife, and the right sister.

* * *

><p>Now, as the clock struck one, and he was again not sleeping, propped up in the chair, irritated by the fact that she had never once come to see him, he was wondering why she deserved to be even thought of as a sister. A sister would have visited, a sister would have sent pictures of the farm, sent books he couldn't bear to read, would have kept him company.<p>

A sister would have turned around and waved.

But the same images kept popping up in his mind, and he could not shake that old feeling of pure passion when he thought of her, passion coupled with the remote hope that even though he said he did not want a nursemaid, the idea that Lady Mary Crawley, who did not dress herself, could have done all that he imagined, had reawakened feelings and confusion he had not allowed himself to feel for years.

He heard the door open, and was prepared to make some excuse for being out of bed when that voice struck his ear and shocked him into standing up.

"What are _you _doing here?" he hissed, and was pleased to see her flinch, pleased to see her retreat in hurt, much as he had done years ago.

But when he thought he'd stuck the knife in even deeper, she turned it on him.

She told him what sounded like a lie, until he realized it was true.

Mary didn't break her hand.

He'd broken it.

Mary's voice was the calm amidst the pain.

Mary's voice was the devilish cry.

Her hands were the ones that soothed until he'd destroyed one of them, her soft lips the ones he craved. She had nursed him, she had comforted him, she was the one wrapped in scarlet silk and starched white, she was the one whose cool fingers could salve any wound.

She was the hand he kept reaching for, the one thing that could keep him safe.

And he was the one who'd broken it.

"It was you," he whispered.

When he finally had the courage to look at her again, he could not bear what he saw in her eyes.

* * *

><p><em>AN - All right, now I've got them in a room together... _


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Many more thanks for your kind words and encouragement. Two things - a tip of the hat to OrangeShipper, who was brave enough to go where I only dared to hint. (see Driving out the Dark)_

_Secondly, this is a pretty strong T rating.. more for emotional battery than anything else._

* * *

><p><strong>Any Other World 47**

He had dreamed, since that moment nearly six years earlier, when she swept into Crawley House, plucked out his heart and rode off with it, that he would one day see that look in her eyes. In the dining room on election night, at Sybil's ball later that summer, and later that very same night in the library at Grantham House, he believed he'd seen that look and it had thrilled him, convinced him that she could one day love him as he loved her.

But not one of those times compared to what he saw now, the look of fully-exposed longing and desire, of raw love and need, the kind of adoration of which he did not think Lady Mary Crawley was capable.

Never had he wanted her more, never had he loved her more, never had he been so convinced that she was the only woman he could ever love.

And never had he hated her so much as he hated her now.

* * *

><p>"It was me.. what?" she whispered, taking another step towards him.<p>

"You know," he said dismissively, and turned back to the window.

"I don't know," she said slowly. She was at his side now and the nearness of her only served to fuel both the love and fury he was trying to keep under control.

He did not bother to look up. "Don't play with me. You were here that night I came home. You were in this room, you smiled at me and held my hand and played nursemaid all night. And you haven't bothered to set foot in here again." He paused. "Why are you here now?"

He felt rather than saw her look at the ottoman and he shifted his feet to accommodate her.

"Why are you here?"

She met his eyes. "I thought you... I wanted to talk."

"And you'll only talk to men in bedrooms."

Her right hand flew up so fast he wouldn't have had time to stop her if she hadn't stopped herself. She withdrew it just inches from his wounded cheek, the fingers clenching into a fist as she put in back in her lap.

They both breathed as if they'd been running.

"You wouldn't have done well in the trenches, pulling your punches like that."

"You're hurt," she said.

His eyes glittered. "Yes, I am hurt."

"So am I," she whispered, and looked away.

He regarded her for a moment, impassively, observing a thread of silver in the long lock that curled into her neckline. "I'd offer you a real chair, only there's just this one, and that thing." He waved toward the wheelchair.

"Do you use that?"

"No," he said. "My mother and... They keep putting me in it, but it makes me feel like this is permanent." He snorted. "A gentleman should move under his own power."

She nodded, thoughtfully. "But wouldn't it make it easier for now, especially if you came down for dinner? At least to get through the halls. Everyone misses you."

"Everyone?"

Her mouth twitched. "Edith probably doesn't. She thinks she's in charge of the farms now."

"At least she's doing something."

She raised both eyebrows at this. "And you assume I'm not?"

"Is the great Lady Mary Crawley doing her bit for the war effort?"

The smile on his face did not reach his eyes.

* * *

><p>She had no interest in making him aware of any bit she had done. It was not in her nature to draw attention to things like that. One either knew or one didn't. Telling people about it was tiresome and she did not care to be tiresome even if he expected it, partly out of annoyance at Isobel for putting her in this position and partly out of spite.<p>

Mary had not known before this moment that love and intense loathing could exist in the same plane, about the same person, at exactly the same time.

But watching him, watching him remember her, watching him realize that he'd been the one to break her hand, watching the love she knew he felt for her wash over him and then to hear that tone in his voice and see that look...

She deserved some anger. She had accepted that all along. But after two years of a slow-growing friendship, in which she'd chosen to put all her own feelings aside for his, and befriended and defended the woman who would, in the end, be the impediment to her only chance at happiness, she did not deserve this.

* * *

><p>"Oh, let's not fight, Matthew." She was pleased her voice sounded so calm.<p>

He frowned. "I thought you liked a good argument."

"I like a _good_ argument."

"Fair enough," he murmured. His face was friendlier now, but something about his eyes worried her. "We shall retreat to our corners and discuss pleasanter things."

She nodded, her face now guarded.

"Why is Murray coming tomorrow?"

Her eyes flicked away for a moment.

"Your father said Murray was coming tomorrow."

"Yes," she said slowly. "I asked for him."

"Why?"

"I want some things settled."

"Like?"

"It doesn't matter."

He leaned forward. "Yes, it does. Why would you need Murray? What are you planning on doing?"

She inched backwards. "I thought we were going to talk of pleasant things."

"Did you find someone willing to take you on with two lovers in your past?"

Her chin tilted slightly higher, as if leaning back would keep tears from rushing out. "I want him to ensure that when you become the Earl, it will be as if I never existed, which I'm certain will be a great relief to you and your wife. One wouldn't want you to have to make excuses for me."

His face must have reflected a question, for she continued. "Don't worry, it won't affect your inheritance. Or your wife's."

The bite in her voice was refreshing. He'd wondered at her friendship with Lavinia, and this was the first time she sounded like the Mary he expected to meet when he returned to Downton.

"I should thank you for being so kind to her. I was a little surprised by your friendship, to be frank."

A flicker of anger was all she allowed before her response.

"Why wouldn't I be her friend? I like her."

"You two are so different."

She absorbed that he meant it as an insult. "Yes, we are," she murmured. "But I'm not going to hold that against her."

The snort that escaped him was involuntary. "So are you teaching her what it means to be the lady of this house?"

Now it was more than a flicker. "Since I don't know what that's like, nor will I ever know, I'm leaving that to my mother and to Granny. I think she'll do quite well. She wants to please them. She wants to please you."

"Something you've never wanted to do."

The silence seemed to stretch for minutes. When she finally spoke, it was with the measured calm of someone containing the worst sort of rage, the kind that once the words are spoken, they cannot be taken back.

"You're entitled to your opinion of me, Matthew. You're not entitled to your own facts about what happened."

"And what are the facts? I proposed to you and you refused to give me an answer until it was too late."

"Too late for what, Matthew?"

He couldn't answer.

"That was your decision, not mine," she said. "You ended it. And now you have Lavinia, someone who gave you the answer you were looking for."

His own suppressed rage began to lick like flames around the edges of his calm.

"So different," he murmured.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Yes," she said. "For example, _I_ haven't slept with you."

* * *

><p>She hadn't meant to tell him she knew about that, but considering he'd brought a bayonet to this cricket match, it was a relief to see she'd hit him. He blanched, sick guilt crossing his face, the sort she did not expect to see.<p>

* * *

><p>It took him a few moments to respond. "She told you about that?"<p>

"She started to... It wasn't hard to know what she meant. I think she realized I was probably the last person she ought to confess to, at least on that front."

"I would think you'd be ideal."

He could have shot her and it would have hurt less. It was getting harder to keep from crying, but she was damned if he would see her cry tonight.

"Not one of us is an innocent in this, Matthew."

He leaned forward, and that cold smile returned. "You least of all."

And that was the straw, the thing that broke her, and she sprang to her feet so he could not see her face.

* * *

><p>He had never hated himself as much as he hated himself right now.<p>

It was like he couldn't control it, flinging knives at her as fast as he could, deriving a sick pleasure from every time he sank one into her. He could make an excuse that he was war-weary, that it was memory of the trenches, the physical pain was making him do it, but the truth was that he was being brutally, unnecessarily cruel to the woman he loved because he wanted her to feel as wretched as he did.

Only now did he realize she probably felt worse, and he hated himself for it.

* * *

><p>He flung out his hand to stop her, his right hand grasping hers as he jerked to his feet, the pain forgotten for the moment.<p>

"Don't go, Mary.. I'm sorry."

"No, you're not."

"Don't tell me what I am. I'm sorry. That was unnecessary."

She took her hand away. "All of it was unnecessary, Matthew. All of it."

"You're right."

"That's generous." Her face, wet with tears, the lip trembling, suddenly came into the light. "I should be grateful for that."

"Mary..."

"We can't be friends, Matthew."

The words struck him like a stone, sinking him, as his legs shook from the exertion of standing.

"I wanted to be friends. Whatever it took. But I can't be your friend. I can't be. Not knowing..."

He started to lose his balance, his arm snaking out to grab the chair, and she reached for him.

He pushed her away.

"I don't want your help."

"You need it," she retorted.

He wouldn't have needed it if he'd watched his step, but fury and pride kept him from looking down and his foot caught on the corner of the chair.

It must have been the years of riding, he thought much later, the ability to fall and twist in such a way. One moment he was upright, the next he was falling, knowing he was about to break bones again and then suddenly he stopped, almost on his knees, and she was under him on the floor, her right hand at his collarbone, supporting his weight, protecting the barely-healed injuries in his chest and belly.

He lowered himself the rest of the way, his chest heaving, the pain of breathing so deeply enough to cause pain, and then he heard her inhuman wail, stifled at the back of her throat as she cradled her left arm, and he realized she'd landed on it trying to stop him from falling.

"Oh, God," he muttered. "Mary.." And his own pain was gone, forgotten as he pulled her to him, kissing her forehead, her cheek, her eyes. "I'm sorry," he kept sobbing.

"I'm sorry," she answered back.

And at first he comforted her, but as he kept talking, begging, speaking nonsense as she whimpered in pain, the words turned into stories crashing out of his mouth and into her ears, a stream of horror, of _fire, and blood and being trapped with the gas mask and thinking over and over again he would die without this, without her, you're __on fire_, and then she was comforting him, holding him tight, his mouth open against the base of her throat, as he wept, the pain in his chest not just from his injured ribs.

And the clock chimed two, and three, and they just held on to each other, leaning back against the end of the bed, without words, without anything other than knowing the loss of the other's touch would be the end.

* * *

><p>"I wish you'd told me." His voice startled her, after hours of quiet.<p>

"Would you have forgiven me then?"

His arms tightened, his breath against her collarbone now. "There was nothing to forgive."

"You say that now."

"Then why ask, Mary?" He pulled his head back to stare at her. "Why ask if you won't believe?"

"I've never believed, Matthew."

"In me?"

She shook her head. "In me."

"Did I do that?"

Again, the dark head shook. "No."

"I wish I'd," and he leaned back into her, lips brushing against her neck, "In London. I shouldn't have let you go that night. I should have..."

"I made you stop," she whispered. "Matthew, I couldn't let you... let us... not until you knew everything."

"The honorable thing to do," he said bitterly. "What our honor hath wrought."

"Your honor," she said. "I have none."

His arms tightened around her, and this time his lips were next to her ear. "Don't ever say that again in my presence." His fierceness surprised her. "Your honor is your honesty, Mary. About everything and everyone, but especially yourself."

"I wasn't honest about Pamuk."

"Because I didn't let you. You tried." Her fingers gripped the back of his neck and his forehead met hers. "Mary, do not let the actions of two dishonorable men define the rest of your life."

She pulled back slightly, her eyes wet. "It's the actions of an honorable one that have defined it, Matthew." Her hands cupped his cheeks and she kissed his forehead before letting him go. "You should be back in bed before that useless nurse wakes up."

"Mary, don't." His hands reached for her, pulling her wrists back toward him, eliciting a hiss of pain that stung his heart.

"Is it.."

"No," she whispered. "It's fine. It's better."

"How did I do it?"

She looked lost for a moment. "Oh. Your mother bumped one of your ribs."

"And I was holding your hand?"

"Yes."

He took hold of it, gently, stroking the tops of her fingers, watching them twitch under his touch.

"What honor is there in making you so unhappy?" he asked, quietly. "What honor do I have?"

"You," and he could barely hear her. "Unlike the ones I have known, you will not abandon a woman you've known."

* * *

><p>It had been a night of truths, and this one hurt more than all the rest. It sat there, unanswered as the clock chimed four, and they did not break apart, his fingers toying with her left hand, a thousand things unsaid, the terrible truth that she wasn't wrong, that he could not do that to Lavinia and that he only loved Mary more because she could not do it either.<p>

And she loved him more for knowing she was right about his blasted honor.

* * *

><p>He lifted her hand to kiss it, and made a face. "These things smell terrible."<p>

And she laughed, finally, her nose wrinkling in agreement. "I hate it. I want it off."

He held up his own cast, even more wrecked than hers. "So do I."

And this was even worse than the truth, to see him smile at her again.

And this broke his heart more than any sadness, to see that real smile from her.

"Come on," she whispered. "Get up. You need to sleep and so do I."

So he let her help him, using her shoulder to push himself up into the bed after taking off his dressing gown. She looked critically at his bandages, noted aloud that at least he wasn't bleeding after all that and fluffed his pillow.

"Really, Mary. Anyone would think you were a nurse."

"Go to sleep."

His voice stopped her at the door.

"Friends?"

She didn't look at him. "I meant what I said, Matthew. We can't be friends."

And she was gone.

He watched the door for a moment.

Something that had bothered him earlier, but he had shoved aside, trickled back into his thoughts.

Something she'd said, that he should have asked her about, but he was too angry, too selfish to think about it until now.

Something that terrified him.

"As if she never existed," he whispered.

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Thank you all again so much for your encouragement - I feel privileged to write and read amongst all of you. Your reviews and messages are hugely constructive and helpful._

_I'm in the path of this hurricane, so hopefully I can get the next and last chapter finished quickly... and actually post it. _

* * *

><p><strong>Any Other World 57**

He slept soundly for the first time in weeks, months if he counted the time in the trenches when he really didn't sleep at all. He dreamt not of fire and blood, but of green lawns, gravel paths, and, bizarrely, a dripping faucet, which only made sense when he awoke and heard the steady patter of rain outside his window as the clock chimed ten.

"I think I'll get dressed today," he told the nurse. "Could you let Molesley know?"

* * *

><p>Mary, on the other hand, did not sleep at all, her thoughts racing through all that had happened.<p>

They had said the worst they could say to each other and come out alive, but it was not without its price. What Mary had always suspected was true, that Lavinia's stammering, incoherent reference to comfort and duty several months back was in fact a confession that she had slept with Matthew. She wondered if that was the reason for the engagement, or the product of the engagement. Either way, Lavinia had confirmed Mary's belief that she had no chance of taking Matthew away from Lavinia, a fact that, after last night, physically sickened her. After two years of forcing herself to think of him as a brother or friend, accepting he was engaged, accepting that he'd moved on, she was now faced with the stark reality that not only had she never stopped loving him, she had grown to love him in such a way that the mere thought of not seeing him every day for the rest of her life was intolerable. She knew he loved her in much the same way.

But he would not do to Lavinia what... she could not even think his name... what he had done to her. He would not use and abandon her. Even if he thought it, she would not allow it. No one, not even Edith, should ever have to feel as she did then... as she felt now.

The mirror today reflected a sensibly dressed woman, but Mary knew, as she took one last look, that Murray and her father would see only the scandal that had threatened to ruin them.

* * *

><p>Matthew was pleased he'd managed to remain standing whilst getting dressed, or rather being dressed. He couldn't decide who was more pleased to see him in real clothing, Lavinia or Molesley. Lavinia brought him a cane, an elegant object he would have scorned, save for the fact he actually needed it. "Just for a bit, darling," she whispered as he took her arm, trying to put as much pressure on the cane as he could. He accepted her help, but his mind was racing with thoughts of the night before.<p>

Mary loved him, as much as he loved her, and his love had become something unearthly in the past twenty-four hours. He could not imagine a day in his life that he would not see her or hold her.

And yet, he was bound by honor and agreement to this woman by his side.

He loved Lavinia. That wasn't the issue. She had been an emotional anchor when he needed one, and a physical one on a night he did not want to think about too deeply. He shouldn't have done what he did, but there was no escaping it now.

They had just turned the corner on the hall when they saw Mary rapidly exiting the library, shoulders shaking. She was followed by Lord Grantham, whose hands came to rest on her shoulders as he spoke, softly. She turned, and Robert's hand touched her cheek, seemed to be seeking agreement, and Mary nodded. He kissed Mary's forehead, eliciting another sob, and whispered to her again, a command of sorts, for she turned and walked down the corridor without looking back.

Guilt over having witnessed that scene washed over Matthew, guilt for knowing if his own pride hadn't been so stubborn, that scene need never have existed.

"Matthew!" Robert's voice boomed down the corridor. "You look splendid. Welcome back!"

* * *

><p>One didn't like to think that one's fortune would improve during war, but Matthew was suitably impressed by the property and income expansion over the past four years. Murray laid out the inheritance, explained to Lavinia all the scenarios, children's settlements, and hers upon his death. She was silent during all of it, nodding at the right moments, but clearly shaken by the entire procedure. When Murray indicated he had more delicate matters to discuss with Matthew, she stood up. Matthew started to join her.<p>

"Don't. You should rest."

He sat back down. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"I thought..." she started. "No, I don't know what I thought. I'm fine, Matthew."

Murray watched the door close behind Lavinia and turned back to Matthew. "You should know the terms of Lady Mary's settlement have changed."

Matthew attempted to look surprised.

"It doesn't technically affect your income. He's signed over one of the new London properties to her, one of the empty ones that isn't yet leased. Her settlement is more than enough to cover expenses on such a property, so there's no more money being drawn from the estate. It's executed upon death, not execution of will, so it's all out of your hands after Lord Grantham's death and your assumption of the title. Of course, you can always argue against this if you want to keep the property."

"Why on earth would I want to do that?"

Murray shrugged. "I'm not sure I'd want that valuable a property in her hands."

Matthew had a sudden urge to utilize a skill he'd learned at officer training school, one that usually resulted in an enemy lying on the ground with both knees broken and blood pouring from the mouth. "I'm sure Lord Grantham knows what he's doing."

"If you change your mind, the settlement is for life, so it can't be revoked later."

Matthew nodded, still furious, promising himself he would fire Murray the second he became the Earl. "No. It won't be revoked. It's hers as it should be. As.." He stopped himself before he finished the sentence and curtly excused himself.

He was breathing heavily when he walked into his room, blessedly free of nurses, and loosened his tie as he lowered himself into his chair, still reeling from what he'd come to realize.

When Robert died, he would never see Mary again. Robert had, by settling this house on her, paved the way for her to never have to come home, to never have to come to him for anything.

"It will be as if she never existed," he whispered to no one at all.

* * *

><p>Anna would have been shocked to see Mary dress herself, but dress herself she did, the thick moleskin breeches, twill skirt, white shirt and slim jacket all on her body in a matter of minutes. She couldn't breathe inside the house, needed air and time to think, and did not feel like signaling to the entire staff that she was upset.<p>

It wasn't until she was on Diamond's back, his hooves pounding the ground as she cantered up and over the hill away from the house that she allowed what had happened that morning to enter her mind.

Her father's generosity took her breath away. After everything that had happened, everything that her behavior and Edith's idiocy had cost this family, the fact that her father would give her a house and the means to maintain it stunned her. Had he remembered what she said at the breakfast table so many years ago? Was this an apology for not fighting the entail? Did he want to protect Matthew?

But she knew, deep down, it was love.

She pulled Diamond to a stop, the reins in her right hand, stared back at the top of the Abbey, and began the long process of telling her home goodbye.

* * *

><p>He saw her cross the top of the ridge, as the rain began to fall harder, and Diamond stretched from a canter into a gallop. Her head was bare, and she appeared to be only using her right hand as she pushed the horse to go even faster to escape the downpour. The gate looked like an impossibility, but she sailed over it with ease and Matthew smiled involuntarily at the sight of it.<p>

"She should wear a hat in this weather." His mother's voice, unlike Mary's own mother's, was not disapproving in the slightest.

"Why was Mary in here that night?"

Isobel paused. "You remembered."

"Why?"

"You were in pretty bad shape and needed nursing all night. She was very helpful."

He blew out a sigh. "You know Mary's no nurse and you hate help. Why was she here?"

Isobel folded her hands in front of her. "She was a very good nurse."

"Why, Mother?"

"You asked for her. To be precise, Matthew, you cried for her and she heard you, and she came because you needed her." She took in his stunned reaction and decided that if he'd taken that much, he could take more. "You _need _her."

Isobel knew the meaning wasn't lost on him, which was why he started sulking and she couldn't rouse him to answer any question, save for the simplest one of whether or not he would be dressing for dinner.

* * *

><p>It took only two seconds into the soup course for him to realize Mary was right.<p>

They couldn't be friends. Not because of the ugly things he'd said to her, and he cringed yet again at how cruel he'd been.

They couldn't be friends because every time he looked in her direction he was lost, drowning in the waves of pure emotion, happiness and longing followed by a crush of desire so intense he almost shook. They couldn't be just friends, because you cannot be friends with the woman with whom you can envision fifty years of your future, your children, the laughter, the sorrow, every piece of your world tied up in her. His body turned to liquid if she raised her eyes to his, and Matthew was shocked the rest of the table couldn't see it.

* * *

><p>Mary wasn't sure she could finish dinner without exposing how she felt about the man sitting not six feet away. She had decided that a cold shoulder after two years of friendly behavior would look odd, so she'd begun the evening wearing the well-practiced cloak of cheerfulness and realized within seconds of the soup being served that this was impossible to keep up. It took everything in her power to not look at him. She could not believe no one noticed that every time their eyes met, it was like a fire rushing through the room, burning her up like straw, the need to touch him so fierce, she actually had to grip the side of her seat once to keep herself from reaching toward him.<p>

* * *

><p>Idiots.<p>

They were both idiots.

Isobel took another sip of wine, the better to observe the idiotic behavior of her son and Lady Mary Crawley, and the rest of the dinner table's apparent willful disregard of said behavior. How anyone couldn't see what was going on between the two of them was beyond her.

She did not know what had happened the night before, only that Mary had departed her son's room sometime around four and that he'd been rested and cheerful when she saw him the next morning, dressed for the day. Isobel knew his condition, never mind his manners, would have precluded any serious physical activity, but she hoped at least the two of them had come to some agreement that yes, they loved each other, and no, he shouldn't marry Lavinia.

Lavinia was curiously quiet that night, and not in an I've-just-discovered-Matthew-is-madly-in-love-with-Mary kind of way. Isobel thought it might have something to do with the meeting with Murray this morning about Matthew's inheritance. Lord knows, it threw her for a loop when she saw it in writing.

Cora's money hadn't just saved the estate. Its use and investment had turned the Grantham estate into one of the wealthiest in the land, which would make Matthew, once he inherited, one of the richest men in England, a responsibility for which Isobel wasn't sure Lavinia was ready.

Never mind the fact that her husband-to-be was madly in love with Mary.

* * *

><p>And so began weeks of breakfasts, of luncheons, of dinners, the need for the other person growing exponentially, so that even a conversation in the drawing room some four weeks later when their respective casts came off felt like something quite different.<p>

"I like the wrinkly skin. It suits you."

_I love you._

"At least you can wear a glove."

_I need you._

"Not to eat. Granny still has standards."

_I could eat you. _

"Did Clarkson use the saw?"

_If you touch me... _

"No, Sybil. She wanted to practice. I don't know why I let her."

_Let me touch you. _

"At least you're still in one piece."

_I am breaking to pieces._

It was almost a relief when he finally got his orders to return to service.

Lavinia went back to London when his orders arrived. She seemed to not have noticed anything between Matthew and Mary, or had chosen not to, instead making plans for him in London, and being excited about seeing her friends and her father. She kissed him cheerfully at the station and waved as the train pulled out.

He felt awful.

Because ever since he got his orders, he'd begun to rethink everything in his future.

* * *

><p>He was looking for Mary when he spotted Sybil walking into the music room, which was serving as the hospital's office.<p>

"She's out with Diamond and Major Halliday. I think they're riding in the paddock."

Matthew thought he'd heard her wrong. "But Halliday's lost a leg."

Sybil frowned. "Not all of it. Mary had an idea about the sidesaddle, so they're trying it out."

The young doctor sitting behind the desk grinned at her. "Lady Mary's Riding School for Gentlemen and Farmers and Gentlemen Farmers. No student refused."

"Stop it," she said companionably. "Go look at the Skelton boy. I think he needs the stitches out."

"Isn't that your job?"

The silence spoke volumes.

"All right, all right," the doctor muttered.

Matthew watched him go. "Was he serious?"

"About my job? No."

"No, I mean about Mary and riding school."

"Well, she doesn't call it that."

He looked utterly confused.

"She teaches riding?"

"Matthew, are you serious?"

"She's never said anything."

"You know Mary."

Sometimes he was afraid he didn't.

Sybil sat down on the edge of the desk. "Did you ever know the Graves family? Wharton Park? Hunted with us?"

He nodded.

"The heir, Mark, came in here last year, his hand blasted off, depressed, thinking he couldn't ride anymore, and Mary made him go ride Diamond. She dared him to do it, bullied him like she was one of his insufferable sisters and he realized he could ride and hunt one-handed. Came back in crowing about it, and then everyone in here who thought they couldn't ride anymore wanted to try. Poor Diamond gets quite a workout." Sybil regarded him thoughtfully. "Mary's quite good at it, actually."

"She's a good rider."

"It's more than that." She pushed herself off the desk edge and sat down behind it. "I can't explain it. Go watch her. Major Halliday won't mind an audience."

"She might," he muttered, but Sybil was already ignoring him.

* * *

><p>The paddock was a decent hike from the house, and while he felt miles better than he had just a few short weeks ago, he was still worn out by the time he reached it. A tall boy was standing by the gate, in breeches and boots, swallowed up by a green military sweater, a flat cap on his... her head.<p>

For as he approached, he realized the boy was, in fact, Mary, and her habit skirt was hung carelessly over the gate, and the sight of her legs, albeit encased in moleskin, only made the weeks-long agony of desiring her even worse.

"Put the weight into your right side," she called out, and laughed as Halliday lurched in the sidesaddle. "Your other right."

"Your grandmother would have a fit if she saw you like that."

She did not look at him. "It's not as if my reputation could get much worse."

"Where do I sign up?"

She turned then and his heart soared at the smile on her face. "You want to try sidesaddle?"

He looked up as Halliday lurched the other direction. "Perhaps not. Why is he?"

"Just squeeze with your left as he comes around," she called, and turned back to Matthew. "Leg below the knee is gone, but he's got enough to grip the pommel. Watch."

Halliday, whose entire life was once defined by winter hunting and summer racing, seemed to have picked up the nuances of sidesaddle riding quickly with Mary's insight, and was grinning like the Cheshire Cat up on Diamond's back.

"This is easy!" he cried out.

"You want to try a jump?" she responded.

"Not on your life!"

She laughed. "So I get a little more respect this next season for hunting sidesaddle, right?"

"Of course." Halliday reined in Diamond in front of Mary. "This was a brilliant idea, Lady Mary. Thank you."

"You're doing all the work," she said, patting Diamond's nose. "And you really should try a jump. You're doing so well."

"All right," he said, clearly pleased at her praise.

"Just like you would before, only as he crests, give him his mouth and sit back and down."

"Back?"

"Trust me."

And Halliday did trust her, confidently approaching the small jump and easily popping over it.

"Bravo," she clapped, laughing at Halliday's evident surprise.

He brought Diamond back to the gate. "So I'll have to visit the lady's side of the saddlery when I get back to London. Any advice?"

"I think you might want a tighter upright pommel. Something that really lets you tuck in the leg. They'll know how to do it." She grinned up at him. "Just don't let them sell you a skirt."

* * *

><p>She had buttoned on the skirt again and given Halliday back his sweater and cap by the time they reached the house, a disappointment to Matthew, who had reveled in the sight of her striding across the grounds. He watched as she allowed Halliday to dismount on his own on the block.<p>

"Sybil was right," he said, after Halliday swung off toward the house on his crutches. "You are good at this."

The happy openness that had been in evidence all afternoon at the paddock retreated again behind that guarded facade she worn since that night. "Sybil told you?"

"Well, I needed to know where you were, and then when I didn't believe her, she told me how it started." He leaned against the stable wall. "It's wonderful."

"Well, one does one's bit for the war effort." The bitterness dripped from her and she picked at nothing on her jacket sleeve.

"Mary," he began.

"No," she said. "I'm sorry. Why did you need to know where I was?"

"I'm leaving. Tomorrow"

She went white. "Back to the front?"

"No, it's a London desk job for me. For now, at least."

"Will you stay at the house?"

"Too much for just me," he said. "I'll stay at the club."

"Matthew Crawley at the club," she murmured.

"Stop it," he said, and she laughed, and it was a relief to hear the sound.

They began walking back toward the house, silently, the pale October light already disappearing.

"I meant it, Mary. Halliday's been pretty down, but what you just did for him..."

"It's nothing."

"Mary!"

She stopped walking and turned to him.

"It isn't nothing to give a man back what he loved, to make him feel normal again."

Her eyes glittered. "I can't give him back his leg, but I can try to fix what makes him miss it?"

"Exactly. That's worth something."

"Matthew, it's still nothing because I can't fix what's really wrong, that a lovely young man, millions of young men, you..." She stopped and stared up at him. "It can't last that much longer, can it, Matthew?"

He shrugged. "Four years and counting, and it still feels like a stalemate. There's some talk of peace, but I don't believe it."

She shivered. "Be careful in London," she said. "There's influenza everywhere, I hear."

He'd wanted to say goodbye to her, before dinner and before they were surrounded by people, but as they reached the house, Sybil came out to join them, contraband cigarette in hand and he was forced to excuse himself.

At dinner, they were seated miles apart, and by the time he'd gone into the drawing room, Mary was already upstairs, taking with her the opportunity to tell her what he was going to do in London.

He was going to break the engagement.

* * *

><p>Twenty hours later, he was in another drawing room, in an entirely different world, and Lavinia had beaten him to the punch.<p>

"We'll be fine," Lavinia said. "It's quite a relief actually, to finally say it out loud. I was not meant for this."

He still hadn't said anything. His heart was soaring, but he was somewhat lost as to what had just happened. "You don't want to get married?" he finally croaked out.

"Matthew," she murmured. "Neither do you."

He didn't disagree. "Why?"

"When we began writing to each other, we talked of what we wanted when all this was over. The kind of life we would lead, the sort of people we would be. We won't be those people. Not now, not after this war, not when you're the Earl. I didn't realize..." She paused. "And we've changed, Matthew."

He nodded.

"I don't doubt that you loved me, and that I loved you. I still do love you, Matthew. That doesn't change. It won't ever change. I'm not in love with you, though."

"I did love you."

She smiled. "But I think you loved what I was, not who I am. We did need each other then. I don't think.. no, I know... we don't need each other now."

"How long..."

"Since I learned my value after your death was based on whether or not I had a boy."

He blanched. "It's not quite that."

She patted his hand. "And it won't be."

"What about..." He took her hand. "I.."

"You haven't touched me since." Her gaze was direct, and impassive. "Truly, Matthew. This is for the best. You know it is."

And again, he could not disagree. He could only wonder at the fact he'd gotten out of this so easily.

* * *

><p>He walked for a while when he left her house, the reality of his future dawning on him.<p>

Mary.

Mary was once again his future, his everything.

He had four days before he had to report to the office, four days in which he could go back up to Downton and propose, four days in which he could pull every string in the book and get a special license, banns be damned. If it worked, and he was convinced it could, he could be married to Mary within seventy two hours. They could come back to London together. They could open the house.

He was so thrilled by the idea that when he saw the telegraph clerk at the desk of the club, he sent the telegram that night to Mary, and made plans to return by the earliest train the next day.

* * *

><p>He'd believed she would meet him at the station, but there was no one there, not even the car to greet him.<p>

"Forget something?" the ticketseller asked, slightly amused to see him again so soon.

"Something like that. Is there anyone who can take me up to the house?"

He was not entirely sure if the youngster behind the wheel was old enough to drive, but at least he kept the old car on the road and he alighted at Downton, his heart in his throat.

The telegram was on a tray in the hall. So she hadn't gotten it after all, and it was something of a relief. He'd worried that she'd misread it, or worse, didn't want him after all.

"Sybil!" he called out as he saw his cousin race across the hall.

She stopped cold. "Matthew. How... we just sent the telegram. How did you know?"

He felt sick. "Know what?"

"About Mary." She looked up the stairs, and began running up them.

He gave chase. "What about Mary?"

"Influenza." She did not look at him, did not see the abject fear that crashed across his face.

They reached the top of the stairs and Sybil turned into the small staircase that led up to the nursery wing. Her hand shot out and she stopped him.

"Don't, Matthew. Her fever's too high. She's infectious. You can't get sick, too."

The door opened at the top of the stairs and his mother, a gauze mask over her mouth, stepped out. "Matthew! Get out of here!"

"Is she going to be all right?"

"Matthew, I'm not going to tell you again. Go!"

And then he heard her.

She was crying for him.

"Matthew... Matthew... Matthew."

Only the strong arms of Lord Grantham, of Bates, of Carson, kept him from rushing up those stairs.

Mary was on fire and he couldn't save her.

* * *

><p>He found it strangely horrific that he was expected to dress for dinner as usual, as if Mary wasn't upstairs close to... He would not think it. He'd told Robert earlier this afternoon that it was over with Lavinia, and that he'd come back to propose to Mary. Robert had not seemed surprised, only enormously pleased and relieved, telling him Mary would get better and all this would be settled.<p>

Matthew had paced all afternoon, hoping every time someone came down those stairs, it would be to tell him her fever had broken and he could see her. He'd forgotten to eat, and now his head ached and he didn't want to sit at that table without her.

He waited until the last possible minute to descend the stairs, trying not to hear that voice that was still crying for him.

His headache grew worse at the dinner table, the conversation around him lost behind the pounding. He tried to maintain his end of it, but as the table grew silent, he realized he had no idea what he'd just said, and that he was hot, sweating, and then suddenly he felt colder than he'd ever felt in his life.

"I believe," he said slowly, "I am sick. I apologize."

Lord Grantham's face grew ashen. "Matthew, get to bed."

Matthew rose, and as he put down his napkin, he noticed the empty chair.

Mary's chair.

And his walk became a clumsy run, out of the room, up the stairs, his head screaming, his chest contracting as he turned up the corridor and to the nursery staircase, up to the white rooms with gauze-masked nurses who are shocked to see him, and past his mother who could not stop him from entering Mary's room.

She was thrashing in the sheets, coughing piteously, her eyes shut against the dim light.

"Mary," he said.

Her eyes flew open and the inhalation at seeing his face sparked a further fit of coughing. "You can't... Matthew, you'll get sick."

"I am sick," he whispered. He sat down heavily on the bed next to hers.

"No," she moaned. "Matthew..." She reached out her hand, but they were too far apart. "Matthew," she whispered, her voice weak. "Don't leave me."

He could not deny her now, nor deny himself. Legs shaking, he pushed the two beds together, ignoring the protestations of the nurse, of the doctor, of his mother. He shrugged off his jacket, undid his tie, began working off his shirt, already soaked with sweat, never once taking his eyes off her, eyes that were already slipping out of focus again from the fever. He did not remember crawling into the sheets. He only remembered taking her hand, noting that even now as she burned with fever, her fingers were still cool. "Shh," he said. "It's all right. You're safe." He smiled as she smiled. "I love you."

"I love you." Her voice trailed off.

"Don't leave me," he murmured, and he let his eyes close.

* * *

><p>When he woke up, the nurse called him "your lordship."<p>

And he was alone.

**TBC**


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: So the good part about being holed up during a hurricane is that you get a lot of writing done. The better part is that you get a lot of writing done and you realize you really can't wrap it up in six chapters because you're having too much fun. So this is a bit longer than expected, and will have at least one more chapter. I hope you won't mind. _

_Thanks to all for your wonderful feedback and reviews... and more importantly, the glorious fiction you write. _

* * *

><p><strong>Any Other World 67**

_London 11th November 1919_

_The clock in the hall of Grantham House chimed ten. _

_The Earl of Grantham counted along in his head as he stared out the window, out at the groups of people walking slowly along the street, all presumably dreading the same thing he was dreading._

_One hour to go._

_The house was uncharacteristically quiet, with nearly all the servants observing the event in public, or with London family. Molesley alone had chosen to stay behind, citing dinner as his excuse. _

_Matthew had not been particularly keen on any sort of party to mark this somber anniversary, but his wife had remarked that if one was to accept the premise of today's events, one should move on and celebrate what was good in the world. _

_Lavinia's father was coming, as well as the newly married Crenshaws. He hoped Sybil would join them, but she had been vague about her plans, and Lady Grantham had not insisted._

_Matthew allowed himself a thought to his wife, who had not come down for breakfast. She usually ate breakfast with him, whether they were in London or at Downton, a habit not typical of a countess, but they were different, as she would often point out. He did not disagree with that assessment. They were far different than their predecessors, or their peers. Unlike so many of those he sat with in the House of Lords, he was not losing his estate to taxes or expenses, in part thanks to Robert's wise investments, but also because unlike so many of those men, he could work. Expertise in industrial law, especially on an international scale, was in greater demand than ever, and the title served to smooth his path into practice at the highest levels. The irony did not escape him that what in 1912 made him a less than ideal heir to the estate was in 1919 what helped the Crawley family keep it._

_The Granthams' refreshing difference was remarked upon in New York, a few months after their wedding, when he took on one of his first cases. An earl and his countess were the height of fascination for the city's social mavens, and they'd found themselves feted and toasted from one end of Fifth Avenue to the other._

_Yet even in those seemingly happy days, remembrance of all that had happened and all they'd lost would descend upon them and they would have to pull each other out of the darkness._

_Today's remembrance was supposed to end that darkness, act as a catharsis for a nation still reeling from war and pandemic. He was not sure a simple two minutes of silence would or could do such a thing._

_There was soft talk in the hallway, and he could hear her asking Molesley for tea, before the door opened and she walked in._

* * *

><p>"What did you call me?"<p>

The nurse, who had called him "Mr. Crawley" when he stripped down and climbed into bed with Mary, looked stunned. "M'lord, I... "

His eyes took in the room, unfamiliar, white, and his mind raced back to a field hospital in France. No. It was Downton. The light was low, and the windows were dark. Night. He was in the nursery. Mary. Mary was here, Mary was sick.

He reached, but found nothing, turned his head to see an empty bed, stripped bare to the mattress.

"Where is she?" he whispered.

But the nurse didn't answer. Her back was turned, and she was doing something with a bottle and a syringe.

"Where is she?" he repeated, louder this time.

"M'lord, please. You need to rest." She turned around, needle poised almost like a weapon and he pulled himself to the far side of the bed.

"Damn it!" he screamed, voice hoarse from coughing. "Where is she?"

The nurse looked nervously at the bed, then the door.

And his heart, which had already contracted at the inadvertent confirmation that Robert was dead and he was now the Earl of Grantham, now threatened to tear itself out of his chest. "Where?" he hissed, and pulled himself up painfully, every muscle screaming with fatigue.

"You need your rest. You can't get up."

He pushed away her hands and stood, shakily. "Mary?" he called out. "Where are you?" He reached the door of the nursery and yanked it open. "Mary?" he called again.

No one would answer him. Not the nurses who were in the hallway, not the doctor who was coming up the stairs, not the hall boy on the second floor who stood up as Matthew stumbled out of the nursery staircase.

He had never known this house to be so silent.

It was a sight talked about for years to come in that house and in the village. The young Earl of Grantham, his war-scarred body bare to the waist, standing in the middle of the upstairs hallway, every ounce of energy behind his half-broken voice, screaming one name, sometimes a question, sometimes a demand, but always the same.

"MARY!"

And his heart sank in fear, the clutch of terror like his days in the trenches, and the feeling of loss and entrapment began to swallow him up. His head dropped into his hands, covering up the tears he did not want anyone to see.

A soft, inarticulate cry made him turn.

She was there, clinging to the edge of her door, and he did not know how they covered the distance, only that Mary was suddenly in his arms and they were sinking to the floor, and it was as if they could not get close enough to each other. The only thing that would be enough was if they could crawl inside each other's skin.

* * *

><p>When her fever broke, it was pitch black outside and the lamps allowed her only enough light to see that she was not alone in the bed. Her heart stopped in fear and she was...<p>

No.

She was in the nursery.

It was Matthew's hand she was holding, Matthew whose head was thrashing back and forth on the pillow, Matthew who was moaning. And for some reason, she was in bed with him. It took the sight of the nurse to remind her that she was sick, that it was influenza, that she'd alternately burned up and frozen in the room she barely remembered sleeping in as a child. It took the feel of Matthew's clammy, hot hand to remember he was sick, too, and that he'd come when she called him, and held her, and kept Death away.

* * *

><p>Isobel awoke in the early morning light to the strange sight of one of her patients trying to nurse the other. Mary, still in the bed with Matthew, had propped herself up, her head lolling in exhaustion, and was stroking Matthew's forehead with a wet cloth, begging him to wake up.<p>

She did not take kindly to being lifted from that bed by a doctor, carried out of the nursery and down the stairs to her own room.

"I can't leave him. He needs me," she sobbed, and Isobel, who had come down to supervise, could not comfort her.

"He needs you to get better," she scolded softly. "Once you're stronger, you can go hold his hand. Not until then."

"But what if..."

"Don't," Isobel snapped. "Don't think that way." She was privately terrified Matthew's fever wouldn't break as Mary's had. He was far sicker than she'd been, his fever even higher, and she nearly told Mary that, but seeing those dark eyes widen in fear at Isobel's tone, she realized as strong as Mary had been when Matthew had needed her before, she was not strong now. "Shh," Isobel crooned as she stroked Mary's forehead. "Just sleep. He's going to need you to be strong with all he's got to face."

She shouldn't have said it, but she didn't think Mary was paying particularly close attention. She was wrong. She was Violet Crawley's granddaughter after all.

"What does he have to face?"

* * *

><p>Papa was dead.<p>

Edith was dead.

Mamma was sick.

Matthew's fever wouldn't break.

And they were telling her she needed to eat.

She wouldn't have touched a morsel, but Carson, his shoulders a little less straight with the burden of the death of Lord Grantham, brought her the tray himself, poured the tea, and would not leave until she finished it, his sad eyes watching every bite and sip. She choked down the toasted scone, managed the egg, and felt very much the small child when she put down the teacup and earned a smile.

Then she noticed the envelope on the tray.

"It came for you when you were sick, m'lady. I thought you might want to see it now."

* * *

><p><em>It's over. On morning train. 1914 offer stands. I'm sorry. Please. Matthew <em>

She'd read it a thousand times over the past hours, curled up in her bed, hearing his voice say the words. "1914 offer stands," she murmured. A second chance for both of them if he... She stopped herself. "When," she said aloud, firmly. She would have no second chance with her father, to tell him how much she loved him, nor would she have the chance to become friends with Edith after years of animosity and loathing. She might not get to see Mamma again.

She made a promise to herself in that dark moment that she would never again wait for a second chance at anything.

* * *

><p>Night came, and with it, word of little improvement in either sickroom. Sybil's scrawled note did not inspire confidence, but she appreciated her sister's brute frankness. Mamma's fever was dangerous. Matthew's simply wouldn't go down. <em> Sleep,<em> it told her. _I'll wake you if I need you_.

She didn't think she could sleep, but something did awaken her in the black of night. At first, she thought she was dreaming.

"Mary?"

She held her breath.

"Mary?" It came closer, a sound of footsteps, and then, louder than any other sound, it echoed through the hall.

"MARY!"

She flung herself out of bed, toward the door, toward that voice, the most beautiful sound she had ever known.

He was there. Alive, standing, saying her name, and when she called for him, he turned to see her and she was lost in those eyes and then lost in his arms.

* * *

><p>"Matthew.."<p>

"Shhh, my love."

"Papa... Edith."

"Oh, God," he whispered to her. "Mary."

"Mamma's sick now. Matthew..." She wrapped herself around him even tighter, sobbing against his neck. "I can't lose her too."

And he spoke nonsense to her, words without meaning, and stroked her back, and she quieted, her fingers shyly touching his bare skin, breathing as he breathed, and she realized with a rush of joy that in a moment when she should have felt nothing but pain and sorrow, she had never felt so alive.

* * *

><p>It was the second most beautiful thing Isobel had seen in her lifetime. The first was her son, seconds old, placed in her arms, the only thing that didn't pale in comparison to the sight of her son now, alive after multiple brushes with death, holding the woman he loved in his arms, whispering to her, soothing her tears.<p>

"You were supposed to tell me when he woke up," she scolded the nurse who'd followed him down. "Get him a blanket. He'll freeze down here."

And she draped that blanket around them herself, thinking her son saw and heard nothing other than Mary, and being surprised when he grasped her hand and kissed it.

"Thank you, Mother," she heard him whisper. Mary's small voice echoed his.

"Go back to bed, both of you." The brusqueness in her voice masked heavy emotion she did not want to expose.

She expected them to part in the hallway, or at the very most, Mary's door. Their days in a sickroom side by side could be blamed on his fever. But when they stood, and Mary showed him a telegram she was inexplicably holding, and murmured something to her son, Isobel was shocked to see him suddenly lean down, pick her up, and carry her into her room.

* * *

><p>He lifted her, noting the fact she weighed almost nothing, and she whispered her answer again.<p>

"Yes." Her arms came up around his neck and her lips brushed his ear. "Don't ever leave me again, Matthew."

So he ignored his mother's admonitions, and the nurse's scandalized sighs as he carefully placed Mary in her bed, never taking his eyes off her face, never releasing his hold on her as he slid in and cradled her against his chest. Her eyes were already shut as he pulled the blanket up around them. The last thing he remembered before his own eyes closed in exhaustion was the sound of his mother's voice. "It isn't proper, Matthew."

The last thing he thought to himself, and it made him sad, was that it was his house and he'd decide what was proper.

* * *

><p>They slept like cats, twined around each other for a night and a day, waking only for the bare necessities, ignoring the pleas of nurses and his mother to embrace propriety instead of each other and move to their own rooms. It took until the morning of the second day to separate them, when Mary pointed out to Matthew that he smelled terrible and needed a bath, and he protested, laughing, that he wasn't the only one. So they parted, still a little weak on their feet, still a little unsure of all that had happened since they'd fallen ill.<p>

Sybil stayed with Mary while she bathed, sending off the nurse so they could talk. Mary asked after Anna, nodding when told she was with an inconsolable Bates. "He'll need her," she whispered.

They lapsed into silence, with only soft splashes of water breaking the quiet, Mary terrified to ask what happened, and Sybil too close to tears to even begin to tell her. Finally, after putting Mary in her chair, wrapped in a dressing gown and blankets, Sybil sat on the floor, head against Mary's leg, and broke the silence.

"He went so quickly. He just kept getting sicker and sicker, and the fever got so high and then.. I made them let Mamma in, because I knew, Mary. I just knew."

"Edith?"

Sybil reached up for her hand. "We were all with Papa, and no one knew she'd gone to bed, that she was sick, and then when we went to find her, she was almost gone. Mamma and I stayed with her."

She did not tell Mary what they'd looked like, or about the sounds of the last rattling breaths. In two years of nursing, these were the worst things she had seen, and they would haunt her to the end of her life.

A thick, choking sob broke from Mary's lips. "I'm glad she wasn't alone." Her fingers toyed with Sybil's curls. "How's Mamma?"

"Better. I thought at first she'd.." She couldn't go on for a moment. "I thought she'd go like Papa, but it's like yours and Matthew's. The fever goes up really fast and stays about the same for three days. It'll probably break tonight. It's like two different diseases. Three if you count mine from two weeks ago. Fever, go to bed, sleep it off in twenty-four hours. The... " She stopped. "Sorry. Clinical talk. You hate nursing."

Mary shook her head. "No, go on. I like hearing you talk about things. I'm glad you're here."

So she tolerated Sybil's one-sided discussion of influenza cases because the sound of her voice was keeping her from dwelling on the fact that half her family was now gone, and the feel of Sybil's hair felt like an anchor to the past, to childhood and old happiness.

And Sybil tolerated being petted, because it was Mary and she knew they were both thinking the same terrible, unforgivable thing.

* * *

><p>They were interrupted some time later by Isobel, who smiled sadly at Mary's hopeful face when she walked in the door. "Wrong Crawley, my dear. He's with Murray and someone he sent for from London. I don't know who it is. There've been a dozen telegrams back and forth. And poor Molesley's been run off his feet moving Matthew's things." She looked approvingly at the two sisters. "Well done, Nurse Crawley. She looks much better."<p>

"Cleaner, at least. Matthew was right. You smelled."

Mary laughed, but the idea that she could laugh when she'd just lost... She cracked, finally, her thin shoulders heaving as her sister knelt up and held her. "I want Mamma," she whispered. "Please, Sybil."

* * *

><p>The fever was nearly gone, the nurse told them, and she'd managed a little tea and milk earlier, which was a good sign. They would have to wear masks, but it would do her patient good to see them.<p>

The room was dark, a small lamp the only illumination. Cora was on her side of the bed, and it tore at Mary's heart that her father's side was untouched. She perched on the edge of the bed and touched her mother's arm. "Mamma?" she whispered, and Cora's eyes opened.

"Mary, you shouldn't be out of bed."

"All right," she whispered, and pulled her legs up to sit on top of the blanket next to her mother. "There. In bed."

Her mother smiled a little, looked at Sybil and closed her eyes. "My girls," she murmured, and the tears spilled out and down the still-beautiful face. "My poor Edith." Her hands groped for theirs and she held them to her cheeks, briefly. "How's Matthew?"

Mary squeezed her hand. "He's better."

Cora turned her head and looked meaningfully at Mary. "Has he...?"

"How did you know?"

Cora's voice wavered. "He told Robert."

Mary's eyes swam with tears. "I said yes."

Cora's half-sob was joy itself. "Oh, my darling girl."

"Yes what?" Sybil asked. "Why am I always the last to know?"

And for a time, there was some joy in that room, joy that gave way again to sorrow as Cora remarked upon Matthew asking Robert's approval when he'd returned, and how thrilled Robert had been that all would be settled, and her face crumpled as she looked to the pillow that would never welcome Robert's head again.

They stayed until she slept, creeping out and back down the hall to Mary's room, where a fresh tray of food reminded Mary she was starving, and reminded Sybil she hadn't eaten in two days.

* * *

><p>Molesley had protested, but Matthew had insisted on it. "You did too much today. Go get some rest," he told him. "I'll put myself to bed this once."<p>

"Shall I take the tray, m'lord?"

"No, leave it. I'm still hungry. Thank you, Molesley. If you could just take that note?"

So Molesley had disappeared, presumably to his new room at Downton, and Matthew had, for the first time in days, a moment to himself, and time to absorb what had happened.

He was the Earl of Grantham, Lord Grantham, Grantham, m'lord, your lordship, all those particular ways of addressing such a personage and he couldn't get his head around it. He still could not quite grasp that the entire staff, Murray and his old friend David Crenshaw had started addressing him as such without any sort of ceremony. Every time it happened, he thought they were talking to someone else.

He'd brought in Crenshaw to handle the break with Murray, which did not go as badly as he'd feared, and to solve the other pressing problems, one of which had taken most of the day to sort out. He'd hoped to see Mary at some point during the day, to share with her that particular success, but everything had taken much longer than expected, and now it was night. He knew from Molesley that she had seen her mother, and his heart ached for Mary's losses, and for the sadness he felt at the deaths of Robert and Edith. Yet every time he thought of Mary, he couldn't help the swell of joy that rose inside him, the sheer bliss he felt at the fact she'd said yes, and then the guilt over that joy would sink his heart.

He hoped Mary was still awake. He knew she had to be feeling much the same way and he didn't want her to be alone, and after awakening in her arms that morning, he could not bear the thought of ever waking up without her again.

* * *

><p>Sybil had tucked her into bed and left, giving Mary room to breathe and think for the first time in days.<p>

In less than a week, she'd gone from believing she'd lost Matthew forever to being engaged to him. She'd lost her father, her sister, and nearly her mother. Matthew was now the Earl.

Matthew.

She had awakened in his arms over and over again during that twenty-four hours, listened to his breathing, reveled in the simplest embrace. He had not left her. He loved her. He came back for her. Everything was changed and that truth caused happiness to bubble up inside her, so strong she could not help smiling, giggling even, at how unbelievably giddy she felt at just the thought of Matthew.

And just as suddenly, agony followed the happiness and the crashing wave of guilt struck her. She couldn't be this happy, shouldn't be this happy. It wasn't fair to Papa or Edith. It wasn't fair to Mamma or Sybil.

The conflict made her literally shake. She couldn't face it alone, and had shoved her feet into her slippers when she heard the knock at her door. The sight of a housemaid made her want to cry, but she swallowed back the tears and indicated she was finished with her tray. The housemaid was new, one she recalled Anna saying was about as bright as an unlit candle, but she was sweet, even if she wasn't Anna.

"D'you need anything else, m'lady? Oh, wait. Sorry." She pulled a folded piece of paper out of her pocket. "Mr. Molesley gave me this. It's from his lordship."

And for a brief second, she thought she meant her father, and the battle between despair and joy raged again in her soul. "Thank you, Emily. That will be all."

* * *

><p>It was Matthew's writing.<p>

"_I'm sorry everything took so long today. I'm glad you got some rest and a bath. You smelled just awful."_

It made her smile through the sting of tears, and that giddiness began to flare again, coupled with something far more primitive, something that had been held back for years, something she dared not hope for until now.

_If you're still hungry, there's quite a bit left on my tray. I'm in my room if you need me. I need you. I love you. Matthew."_

Her breath quickened. He needed her.

And she needed him.

**TBC**

* * *

><p><em>AN: So.. might be slightly M-ish next time. Just a warning. Probably can't hold candle to certain recent naughty bits (you know who you are) but I'll try. :)_


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: So it's finished.. and it's a little bit M. Thanks to you all for reading and writing such nice comments. I'll be ducking off the site in a couple of weeks.. here in the states we won't see DA until January, and I'm hoping to avoid as many spoilers as I can. Can't wait to see it – and to see what you've all done with it come next January. _

* * *

><p><strong>Any Other World 77**

The lights were low, and Matthew was in his chair, dressed only in a soft shirt and trousers. His feet were bare, a sight she found curiously alluring.

"Lord Grantham," she said softly.

He turned, smiling, and reached out his hand to her. "Not officially, Lady Mary," he said. "If we are to be so formal." His voice was rough, still hoarse from the coughing much as hers was, and it thrummed through her, making her blush.

"I can't see anyone challenging you or denying your pedigree." She was suddenly shy, and looked away. "Hang on." She pointed at his tray. "Mrs. Patmore gave you apple tart."

"Didn't you get some?"

She picked up a small piece and tipped it into her mouth, causing his heart to skip several beats as she licked her fingers. "Sybil ate my pudding." She picked up the plate. "May I have what's left?"

He nodded and she forked up a bite. "You are still hungry," he murmured.

"Ravenous," she said, and sat on the ottoman, balancing the plate on her lap. "Aren't you?"

"Not for food."

And she blushed again and put down her fork. "For two people who've been..." She couldn't go on, the grin on her face preventing it.

He leaned forward and took her hand. "Sleeping together." His grin matched her own.

"We were sick. We didn't know what we were doing." She was beginning to laugh.

"Oh, that's it, then." He was about to knock that plate off her lap when her face crumpled and she started to cry. "Darling..."

"It's not fair, it's not right, it's wrong... Papa..."

He pulled her onto his lap, plate and all, not noticing when the tart crumbled against his chest. "Mary, darling." She made a fuss over trying to pick up the mess and he took the plate away from her. "Mary."

"How can I even think about this?"

He stroked her hair, pushing it back from her face. "You feel guilty about being happy."

It wasn't a question. She was shocked he understood. "Yes." She brushed the tears from her cheeks. "Every time I think about you, I'm happy, Matthew. So happy. And then..." Her eyes filled up again. "It's not fair to them that I'm happy. It's not fair to Mamma or Sybil."

"You think any of them would begrudge you happiness? Truly, Mary?" His hands took her cheeks. "They wouldn't. They won't."

"How can you say that?"

He flinched. "Mary, if I didn't believe that, I couldn't get out of bed in the morning. I left men behind, watched friends die. I survived and others didn't. I can't fix that." He forced her to look at him. "You couldn't fix Halliday, but you could fix what made him miss his leg. You can't change what happened. You can only live. That's what your father taught me. After I returned from the Somme..." His voice trailed off. Someday he would tell her that Robert had found him, sobbing like a child near one of the old cottages, insensible and inconsolable and walked him back out of the dark. Tonight was not that time. The mention of her father caused a fresh wave of tears and he tucked her head against his shoulder and rocked her.

"You're going to feel this way, Mary. I still feel this way. We'll have to help each other." He put his lips in her hair, near her ear. "Did you notice the chill in this room?"

She nodded.

"You'll have to get used it it, my love. I'm sorry. I cannot sleep without a window open, without some air, without some way to see outside," he said. "Otherwise, I believe I am still trapped in that trench." Her arms tightened around his neck and he felt her hand twist in his hair. "The only wrong thing is not to live, Mary. The only wrong way is not to love."

They were silent for a time, their breaths warming the other's cheek. She stirred first, pulling back to look at him. "My darling," she said, smoothing back that flop of hair she loved so well. "What did you do today?"

So he told her most of it, the funeral plans made, the letters of patent Crenshaw had sent that were the first step to him being called to Lords, and the arrangements to open the house in London. He was secretly thrilled when he earned a small smile from her over his firing Murray.

"There's news on the war front," he said. "It seems the armistice may be real after all. We have recovered Belgium and France."

"You won't have to go back?"

"Well, there will be a lot of work to do, and nothing's signed yet, but it suddenly feels real."

"Like this," she whispered. His smile made her shy again. "Is there any more tart?"

He indicated the remnants strewn across his shirt. "Only on me."

She leaned down and lipped off a large, sticky crumb just above his heart. "Tart," he whispered."

Mary looked up at him, slightly startled by the word, and found he was staring at her mouth, at the traces of crumb left on her lower lip, the heat of the look making her quite dizzy.

"I haven't kissed you in four years," he murmured.

"Not properly, anyway," she said softly.

"Not since London." He shook his head. "A lifetime ago." His thumb pulled lightly at her lower lip, stroking it, his eyes locked on hers, and she marveled at how her need to touch him, to feel him over the past few days was such a different need than what he was awakening in her now.

His voice shook when he spoke again. "Will you stay with me tonight?"

There was only one answer. She nodded, her chin lifting slightly to keep the contact with his thumb and he smiled. "So," he said slowly. "I should change, then." He lifted them both out of the chair and set her lightly on her feet. "But first, I have three things I need to discuss with you."

He disappeared into his dressing room, leaving her bereft. "Aren't you going to kiss me?"

"Of course," he called. "But once I start, I don't plan on stopping."

She held onto the back of the chair, the desire already heavy inside her. She noticed for the first time they'd put him in the Grey Room, her grandfather's old room. Her father had been born here. She thought briefly, sweetly, of dark-haired babies with light blue eyes born in that bed in years to come, of Matthew as a father, and the smile finally returned to her face. "What three things?"

He didn't answer.

"Matthew, what three things?" She turned the corner into his dressing room and had to grip the door for support. She had seen it for days, but now that she was fully conscious, the breathtaking sight of his body was a glorious thing. The strain of war, the training, the wounds, and now the illness had hardened him physically, turned him into something that should have been carved out of stone, only he was breathing, and real. His trousers were already loosened, and her cheeks went even redder.

"Three things," he said softly.

If she stopped leaning against the door, she would fall over.

"First of all, will you marry me?"

"I already said yes."

He smiled. "To a telegram. I want to do this properly."

"Half-dressed?"

He responded, after a long stare full of meaning, by unfastening his trousers and stepping out of them... out of everything.

"Matthew!" It was meant to be a reprimand, a disapproving sound, but it came out sounding quite different. The desire that had flared only seconds earlier burst through her like fireworks.

"Will you marry me, Lady Mary?"

She pushed herself upright, away from the door, swaying slightly as she took hold of the knot on her dressing gown. Her eyes never left his as she tore it open and dropped it behind her.

"Yes," she whispered. "Of course I'll marry you, Matthew Crawley." She began to pull up her nightgown, but he'd already crossed the room and his hands joined hers. "Mine," he muttered, and pulled it up and off himself.

It wasn't the chill in the room that caused the intake of breaths, nor the tightening of flesh. He stared at her, drinking in the creamy skin and chocolate eyes, her lips already parted and inviting, everything he had dreamed of for six long years in one slim, naked body inches from his own.

She shivered at that gaze, her own eyes glancing across his scarred cheek, down to the wreck of skin across his taut stomach, felt her own stomach clench in joy again at the sight of what was lower. She did that to him. She made him feel that way. She looked back into his eyes, the blue all the more vivid in the low light, his pupils, black, pulsing, dilated, his breath quickening just before he lowered his head to hers. "Mine," she whispered against his lips.

And after years of longing, of awareness, of need and love, of brief and unresolved tastes of each other, at long last nothing stood in the way of this, of him lifting her up as their lips met, her legs wrapping around his waist, of his groan and her gasp as contact was made. They did not bother to turn down the lamps, or pull back the covers. Any shyness was gone, any politeness was unnecessary. At first, it was mouths and tongues, the desperate hunger to taste every inch of skin, then hands stroking over that skin, her discovery of places that made his breath stop, his thrill at her soft moans as he touched her, kissed her, moved with her, until his hand was at her hip, her hand was guiding him, and they watched themselves in awe as he slid inside her, the deep sigh in unison as they thrust together for the first time, her breath catching as his eyes met hers and they smiled.

They smiled. And it was soon impossible to tell where his body stopped and hers began, as they rocked together, discovering the motion together, rolling so she was over him, and then he was over her, and then nothing mattered except that contact, that crash of hip against hip, the tension building, the sound of her incoherent cries, of his hoarse groans, as they kept pushing, seeking, needing, until she suddenly arched against him, and then buckled, her mouth at his shoulder, her hands slipping on his skin.

And he could feel her body pulling him in, the beat against him like a heart, causing him to break a mere second later, and her name burst from his lips, and she called him by name and it was mouths and hands clasping, and they were sinking into each other, to find a peace like they had never known.

They stayed locked together, their breathing returning to normal, the sweat-slicked skin cooling them in the night air. He managed to pull the eiderdown over them, the cocoon keeping them close as he reveled in the feel of her, of staying inside her, of feeling her body grip and release him in an ancient, languid, irregular rhythm.

She could not move, did not want to move, did not want to let go in this moment she could not have imagined. Love was one thing, but this connection felt unearthly. He was still inside her, his head on her shoulder, and she shifted slightly so as to keep him there. Her fingers lightly stroked his back, and she could feel him grin against her cheek.

"You're rather proud of yourself, aren't you?" she murmured some time later.

"Rather." The reverberation of his voice into her chest stirred her again, and she dragged her thumbnail up his side. It had made him gasp before, but this time, it did much more.

* * *

><p>"Three things."<p>

"What?" They had finally gotten the energy to actually get in bed and he was glad of the warmth, glad to feel her skin on his, tangled up together under the blankets.

"You said three things. That was only one."

"It was more than once."

She pulled her head off his shoulder and attempted a glare. It was entirely unsuccessful and resulted in precisely what had just happened twice before, only with considerably more speed, a curious amount of variety, and something that for days afterwards would make her blush if she thought of it.

* * *

><p>It took longer to recover, and he was nearly asleep when she spoke. "If that was the three things..."<p>

"All right." He reached to the bedside table and pulled out a small leather box. She recognized its origin, the jeweler responsible for the Grantham estate jewelry. "Here's number two."

Her heart stopped at the sight it. "Matthew, when did you...?"

"I ordered it the morning after Sybil's ball." His eyes asked permission and he slid it on her finger. "There were heirlooms, of course, but I wanted it to be yours and yours alone."

It fit perfectly. The depth of the diamond, so white it was almost blue, drew her in, just as Matthew's eyes did. She recognized the cut as a highly desired and fashionable one, and the knowledge that he had bought this and kept this, and that he had not given it to Lavinia made her dizzy again. "Matthew," she whispered, and sought out his lips with her own, her left hand with its new adornment cupping his cheek. "And?"

"What?"

"Third thing?"

"Demanding." He kissed her and got up.

She propped herself up on an elbow and watched him walk across the room to the desk. Hers. He was finally hers. That golden-haired god, roughed up from years of war, was hers now, walking across the room as if he owned it.

He did own it.

The sorrow rushed up inside her again and her eyes stung. She let it go for a moment, and then, as he turned around, put that sorrow back where it came from, deep in her heart.

He handed her a piece of paper as he got back in bed.

"What is it?"

"Well, this is part of what took so long today."

She read it over, a deep blush making his favorite freckles stand out across her nose. "A marriage license?"

"We don't have to wait for the banns." He pulled her back against him and put his lips in her hair. "I'll have to go back to London after the funerals. I'm not going without you. Unless," and he paused. "If you think you need to be here for your mother or Sybil, I'll understand."

"No," she whispered. "They'd make me go if they thought I was staying for them. I'm going with you."

* * *

><p>They married, four days later, at the Dower House instead of the church, two days after they buried Robert and Edith. Violet had won the fight with Isobel over hosting the wedding breakfast, and Cora could not bear another ceremony at the church. So they said their vows in her grandmother's drawing room, mourning broken for this one day. The losses were keenly felt, but so was the love in that room as Matthew and Mary became man and wife.<p>

* * *

><p><em>The door opened and she walked in, and it was as it had always been for him, every time she walked through a door, from that first moment when he'd made a fool of himself at Crawley House and she'd not let him forget it. <em>

_And even in black, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever known, even more so with that new curve that changed her shape and gait, but diminished not a whit that serene grace as she walked toward him._

_And he marveled that, as her hand cupped his cheek and she leaned up for a kiss, that no matter the season or time, Mary's fingers were always cool and the mere touch of them would warm his heart._

_He pulled her close. "Where were you this morning?"_

"_Uncomfortable is where I was," she said, and he touched the swell he could not believe was real. "So I got some letters finished. I think I've convinced Granny that I'll be back at Downton before the baby comes. Oh, and your mother is coming next week." _

"_I'm glad you two are friends."_

_Mary smiled up at him. Her letters to Isobel always ended with the same two words that still were not enough to express the gratitude and love she felt for her mother-in-law. "Well, it is her fault we're married." _

_The tea came, and the clock chimed half past, and they sat and talked as they did every morning, about the papers and politics, which would usually spark at least one good argument, which in turn would spark at least one good kiss or something of that nature. This morning, however, he was distracted, nervous about the ceremony today, and she did not press him to fight. They talked then of dinner, of their mutual excitement to see the Crenshaws for the first time since the Crenshaws' marriage, a surprise marriage to all but Mary, who had at dinner some seven months earlier noticed Mr. David Crenshaw and Miss Lavinia Swire having a conversation, and made it her duty to smooth their path. _

_The phone rang, which turned out to be Sybil, who had, much to her sister's delight, decided she wanted to join them for dinner after all. "If it's not too late or a bother?" _

"_Don't be ridiculous. Come get dressed here, I want to talk."_

"_I will." An odd sound came down the line. "It's starting. I'll see you tonight." Mary hung up the phone and went back into the drawing room._

_The great cacophony of guns shook the house, and Matthew was shaking. __She watched him closely, watched his eyes shut at the first sound and watched his fingers grip the edge of the table. She walked across the room, and put her hands on his shoulders._

_And he took hold of her, his face against her belly, breathing in the scent of her, his hands caressing the hard curve that protected his child, and the fullness of love washed away the worst of the sadness._

_The guns stopped, and the clock chimed eleven, and then there was nothing but quiet. No movement on the street, no movement in the house. _

_Millions had died. He had not. He had survived. They had survived. He had survived the trenches, they had both survived the influenza, and at the end of all of it, they had found each other again. They would be parents by the New Year. _

_He looked up to see tears in her eyes, and she leaned down and kissed him, and he did not hear the moment when the silence stopped. He only knew when his wife, his Mary, had stopped kissing him and the smiles that broke through their tears were real, and the only wrong thing was not to live. _

_The only wrong way was not to love._

* * *

><p><em>The Times, 3 January 1920<em>

_GRANTHAM. - On December 31, 1919, at Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, the Countess of Grantham, wife of the Earl of Grantham, of a son._

* * *

><p><em>FIN <em>


End file.
